Cynicism
by HugAZombie
Summary: One shot: "The prodigal daughter – returned from her unruly and disobedient ways. Her mask is a perfect china creation, not a crack lies amongst its' surface."  Slight MerlinArthur  T out of habit.


_**Disclaimer:**__ I do not own Merlin, dammit. *Sobs*. It belongs to BBC. _

_**Notes: **__So, I was inspired by the new Morgana. I think I may have dragged this out a bit :/ Never mind, hope you enjoy. (PS. Sorry for the angsty, pessimistic Merlin xD) _

_**Media:**__ TV series obviously._

_**Spoilers: **__Um... The Tears of Uther Pendragon Part One and Two. _

_**Characters:**__Merlin, Arthur Pendragon, Morgana LeFay._

It was those eyes, he decides, that had beguiled him. They are like fools gold – seemingly so beautiful, jewels to entrance any unsuspecting nobility, and yet false, disgustingly forging some rendition of sincerity and kindliness. And those lips, that quivered so convincingly with those crystallised tears. Lies. Betrayal. Hate.

How could he have not seen this before?

Because, he thinks bitterly, of his naivety, his damn, incessant _need_ to look over ones faults and take things at face value. This stupidity had almost cost him Camelot. Hell, it almost cost him his friends – he could've lost _Arthur_. And all because he _doesn't listen_. He chose to ignore those dire warnings the Dragon presented to him, shrugged it off and so foolishly believed he was the one in the right – him, a puny mortal of limited years and wasted breath against a creature of ages with the wisdom of centuries guiding those golden orbs and musically spoken advices.

He was a fool. But, Merlin vows as he moves to fill Arthurs' goblet, he will not allow it to happen again. He can't afford to lose the home he has forged here; lose those people he cares for or the destiny that has been carved out for him.

Morgana speaks, her voice light and heavenly as always, but Merlin refuses to allow it to lull him into some deceiving semblance of security. He can read those eyes, can pick apart the truth from her lies, can tell the mockingly quiver at the edges of her lips as she smiles at Uther.

Merlin shifts uncomfortably. He could've stopped this long ago. But he had been young. Blinded. And now his words of relief taste bitter on his tongue and his words of dismissal even more so. The thrum of adrenalin races through his veins like venom, a dark resolve poisoning his heart against the dark beauty that sits at Uther's left hand.

So perfect is her disguise, Merlin thinks with uncharacteristic cynicism. The prodigal daughter – returned from her unruly and disobedient ways. Her mask is a perfect china creation, not a crack lies along its' surface. Darkly descendant in all its uncouth treachery.

Cynicism is unfitting of the usually carefree servant, the small frown of concentrated thought ugly and strange on his face. And yet, Merlin can think nothing but darkness and evils when his foil, his new foe, more deadly than Nimue, simply because he will hesitate to harml her, sits and speaks those gold-tainted lies.

He could've stopped her, maybe eased her pain if he had only taken full notice in the past. He had seen the darkness that was threatening to consume her soul, witnessed firsthand what she was capable of. After all, this was not the first time she had made an attempt on Uthers' life, is it? Hadn't she before tried to kill him, thrust between his ribs and into his heart a dagger? Merlin _saw_ the intent in those bejewelled orbs and yet he blindly accepted her tears and her seemingly heartfelt acceptances and even agreements with you and your actions.

He feels disgusted with himself. With her. With the whole damn situation. He closes his eyes briefly, missing the knowing look said dark haired witch casts at him. He can feel those eyes and he is glad he cannot see them. He can't face up to that hate yet, that dark satisfaction in the shadows that have now taken refuge in her heart and fuelled by Morgause's influence.

Blood is thicker than water. Blood is thicker than loyalty and trust.

Merlin is once again beckoned by the princes' inpatient hand and he moves forward to answer his heed. As Merlin sneaks yet another glance at Morgana, he remembers the challenge she had issued when the king had gathered them in the throne room after the battle with Cenrid. How she had jutted her chin and gazed at him with defiance and power surreptitiously challenging him to thwart her. How those eyes had almost glimmered with the certainty that he will lose and forfeit his life for entertaining such a folly.

He knew she thought he had won their sword fight by pure chance – she like everyone else wouldn't guess to the magic thrumming through his veins, interchangeable with his blood, gold and red – the colours of Merlin.

Arthur mutters something to him, frowning in confusion and annoyance and perhaps even a little bit of worry. But for once, Arthurs' words hold no importance to him. That faint thrill bursting through his veins and the stammering of his heart does not occur, nor does the odd perplexity trail after like a reluctant child, because Merlin doesn't have the luxury of time these days. He does not have a mindless moment where he can meander through his thoughts and attempt to puzzle out just what he feels for the blond prince, because Morgana's next perfidy could come at any moment – Merlin cannot be distracted by the frivolous matters of the romantic heart, and must instead reacquaint himself with that dark solider of Logic and the hard hearted scowl of Resolve.

But, until that plan unfolds, Merlin can do little but anticipate and watch as she self-destructs. He can do nothing but be the cause of said destruction. It is either her or his entire destiny, the future of the kingdom and himself. Merlin has to be the one who brings her down and this time, this time he can't afford to agonise over it – because if he does then its' game over. Camelot will fall and that destiny the Dragon spoke so highly of will be lost like smoke in a storm.

This is the decision he has to reconcile with. He knows the right choice, he knows what he must do and he must accept it. He has accepted it. It has broken his heart, yes, shattered it into a thousand and one different shards, and he knows he cannot hope to reclaim all of those pieces again. Some, he realises, are lost forever down some dusty crack in the cobblestones, but he has made his choice.

A friend or the entire kingdom. Ruin a now desecrated symbol of friendship or destroy the future promised to him by Arthurs' strength and the Great Dragons' words.

Him or Morgana.

The choice is simple.

It's kill or be killed, and Merlin is determined not to die. After all, Merlin thinks, as he spares himself a little luxury and glances at Arthur, who is laughing brilliantly and a little drunkenly, if his glazed eyes are any indicator, he has everything to live for.


End file.
